


Bad Buttercup

by Beginte



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Communication, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Part-Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Sharing a Bath, Sirens, Sort Of, i am soft, they're idiots but they're trying, this is mostly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: Jaskier has been told by many people (and by Geralt repeatedly) that he has the self-preservation instincts of a potato, but he prefers to think of it as a joyful love of life and the ability to look on the bright side. Yes, the whole thing with the sirens had been horrifying, but the stranded man had been saved, and he and Geralt are both whole and hale, and the adventure will make a goldmine of a ballad, honestly.Jaskier dices with death (again). Geralt tries to self-blame (again). Jaskier is having none of it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 401





	Bad Buttercup

Not all hunts go well, which is only to be expected, and which Jaskier is used to now, after years by Geralt’s side.

Sometimes they don’t go well because humans can be worse than the monsters Geralt risks his life to slay for them. Other times, things don’t go well because of the actual monsters (or the occasional third party interference), but any hunt that ends with all limbs still attached on both him and Geralt is a good one, in Jaskier’s book.

They’ve spent the second half of summer on the Coast (at long, long last), and it was absolutely idyllic, with Geralt finding small contracts in the area while they stayed in a rented cottage for well over a month, taking to the sea each day. But Jaskier isn’t sorry to leave it all behind when the harvests begin to slow and the wind weaves a crisp note of change into the air. His blood is thrumming with a brand new energy that comes after a lengthy, lazy rest, and he’s ready to walk the Path again, just as Roach is, despite all the happy galloping through the waves she’s done.

Besides – they can come back next summer, if they choose. And the next, and the next, and the next.

It’s still a while yet before they have to make plans for the winter, so they stick to the Coast and travel south for a while. In a small fishing village, a woman rushes to them with tears in her eyes and terror in her voice, telling them about her brother, Rhobar, who has gone off to fish in particularly fertile waters haunted by sirens -- he’s deaf, and so resistant to their charms, which is why he’s the only one who goes there, but it’s been four nights and he still hasn’t returned. She offers what little money she has, and Geralt closes her fist back over the proffered coins and asks for more details instead.

It’s tricky, the hunt first taking them in a rickety boat to a rocky pimple of an island where a now-crumbled lighthouse used to stand centuries ago. They find Rhobar stranded there, his boat shattered, but then a storm comes, because of course it does, lashing waves and rain as the sirens give up on the lure of their song and now simply churn in the water around the rocks, leaping out of the crashing waves and trying to grasp them by their ankles while they huddle together, the wind whipping at their wet clothes and trying to push them into their deaths.

The waves keep on crashing, slicking the already wet stone as Geralt screams in the wind for Jaskier to get back, _get back, you idiot_ , sending Jaskier scrambling for the elevated centre where Rhobar sits in terror. Geralt swings his sword and casts spells in blasts of wind and rain, while Jaskier grasps at whatever loose bit of rubble he can find to fling it at the sirens when they get too close to his Witcher.

It gets dire at one point, properly dire, with a monster of a wave swelling ahead in the dark, swelling and swelling and rising until it crests, standing taller than the remnants of the lighthouse before it crashes, and Jaskier screams as Geralt races to outrun the surge before it swallows where he stood. He makes it to the top, gripping Jaskier tight as the water swallows the edges of the islet and washes over their ankles in a ravenous current.

A siren washes up next to them and Geralt dispatches it quickly. After that, things seem to improve, so Jaskier ventures out to help Rhobar where he’s managed to cling on through the wave, pulling him to safety. He pushes dripping-wet hair from his eyes and strains to locate their boat in the gales, rushing towards it when he spots it washed back out into sea and straining perilously on its tether. The rocks and rubble wobble under Jaskier’s feet, the seawater and rain making them slick, but the boat is in sight and he tries to reach it before it gets knocked against the rocks.

A loose piece tips under his foot and he stumbles, falling through the rain, hits more loose stones when he lands, tumbling and sliding towards the island's edge.

“Fuck!” he screams, two sirens churning just below as he tries to scramble up the wet rocks, the slick surface offering no purchase and dragging him down—

“Jaskier!”

A spell blasts into the water, dispersing the sirens, as Geralt’s hand grabs the back of Jaskier’s soaked doublet, hauling him up into a crushing embrace.

With the last of the sirens gone, they pull their boat back onto land and huddle in the centre of the tiny island to wait out the storm, which passes mercifully quickly. Rhobar’s sister cries with joy when they return her brother, and she thanks them profusely, and Jaskier smiles, watching her beam at Geralt with gratitude.

It's been an exhausting day, all told, but they all came out of it alive, so Jaskier is cheerful and looking forward to a hot bath by the time they reach their inn. He makes a joke about water when he steps into the hot bliss of it, allows himself to sink in.

“Hmm,” is all Geralt says to Jaskier’s _very witty joke_ , thank you very much, but he begins to strip out of his wet clothes while Jaskier watches idly. “Move,” he says next, nudging Jaskier away from the edge so he can slip into the bath behind him rather than have the opposite end of the tub to himself.

“You know, it’s cruel, making a man move once he’s started to relax,” Jaskier grouses, but mostly for show, humming happily when Geralt settles and pulls him back against his chest, wraps him in his arms, holds him close in the hot water. “Oh, this is nice...” he sighs, reaching back to absently stroke Geralt’s cheek.

Geralt says nothing, merely hums again and nuzzles behind Jaskier’s ear; he presses a kiss to the side of his neck, soft and slow, lingering on Jaskier’s pulse.

Jaskier has been told by many people (and by Geralt repeatedly) that he has the self-preservation instincts of a potato, but he prefers to think of it as a joyful love of life and the ability to look on the bright side. Yes, the whole thing with the sirens had been horrifying, but the stranded man had been saved, and he and Geralt are both whole and hale, and the adventure will make a goldmine of a ballad, honestly.

Warmed by the bath and with the adrenaline leaving a lively enough tingle in his blood, Jaskier feels pleasantly buzzed and, after towelling off, he and Geralt proceed to celebrate with a very life-affirming fuck. Afterwards, Geralt wraps him in his arms again, tangles their legs together, slings an arm over Jaskier’s belly, and pushes his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, huffing a satisfied sigh there. Jaskier can’t help but breathe a small laugh.

“Yes, I quite agree,” he says, only a little teasing as he cards a hand through Geralt’s hair; it’s still damp, but fragrant with a hint of lavender now instead of brine and fish.

He yawns, humming his thanks when Geralt pulls a blanket over them both.

“Mm, goodnight, my dear,” he says, patting Geralt happily on the arse, and wastes no time in allowing the exhaustion of the day and the pleasurable languor of a good fuck to pull him into sleep.

* * *

Something sharp and persistent keeps nudging into his sleep until the bubble of it cracks and fractures, jostling him awake. The room is still dark, his head fuzzy with not enough rest, and it takes another nudge for him to realise what’s happening.

Beside him, Geralt twitches and then jolts, one leg kicking in the sheets, a distressed grunt stirring in his throat. He’s frowning, his silver hair fanned out and mussed across the pillow as he keeps turning his head this way and that, his breathing shallow and uneven, fingers clenching in the blanket where he holds Jaskier close.

Nightmares. They happen sometimes, because whoever said that Witchers don’t feel anything was full of shit and Jaskier would like to write a formal and very scathing letter of complaint. And then do questionable things to them with their own letter opener.

“Oh, love,” he sighs quietly, because he will never, ever be able to look at Geralt in the clutches of a nightmare and not feel a tightness in his chest.

Fortunately, these are the clutches of a monster that Jaskier, for once, is an expert at slaying.

Even in the early days of their companionship Jaskier suspected that Geralt’s grumbled insults about his music are an endearingly peculiar mix of teasing and keeping up appearances. Years later, he knows it for a fact, but he also knows just how much Geralt actually appreciates his music, even if he doesn’t often say that out loud. One of the ultimate proofs of this appreciation is the music Jaskier has composed to soothe Geralt’s nightmares.

It’s a sweet, uncomplicated melody with a slow tempo and an idly cheerful rhythm, a simple plucking of strings that brings to Jaskier’s mind a lazy afternoon on the Coast, and which anchors Geralt’s thoughts to a safe pattern. Jaskier first began playing it when Geralt would wake from his nightmares, but now about half the time he plays it while Geralt is still dreaming, and the tune is enough to send him back into peaceful slumber without waking.

The Oxenfurt Bardic Competition can keep their prizes and their accolades. This is Jaskier’s greatest musical achievement, and he’s happy to play it only for Geralt’s ears.

Geralt flinches again; Jaskier gently starts to move away to reach for the lute perched by the bedside, but Geralt grips him with sudden desperation, pulling him back in.

“No!” he cries out, voice raw and ragged with terror, like a man about to have his chest split open and his heart torn out while he still breathes. “ _Jaskier!”_

“Geralt!” Jaskier says, but Geralt still doesn’t wake; Jaskier breathes deep, gathers all the conviction he has and says, “Geralt. Geralt, _wake up_.”

It’s not a shout, but it’s forceful with command, a plunge that seems to cut through Geralt’s nightmare, because in the next moment those golden eyes are open; they’re bright with fear, pupils shrunken into pinpricks of black, and Jaskier slides a hand in Geralt’s hair, moves his face in front of his.

“Geralt. Shh. It’s all right. We’re all right.”

The pupils dilate in the dark, filling with recognition, and in the next moment Jaskier finds himself rolled onto his back, Geralt pressing close to him, hiding his face against Jaskier’s neck, hands grasping and touching, breaths coming long and ragged into the side of Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier hums quietly, allows Geralt to press him into the safety of the mattress and to shield him with his own body; he moves his hand down Geralt’s back in long, soothing strokes, whispers shushing noises and sweet nonsense into Geralt’s lavender-smelling hair, kisses the crown of his head.

It may not be much, but it’s all he has. And he’s never not given Geralt everything he had.

Moments drag by, slow and impossible to count in the quiet darkness of their room. Geralt’s breathing slows, as does his heartbeat, and he sighs, long and deep and heavy, when Jaskier begins to slowly hum some idle tune.

“There now,” he says, stroking down Geralt’s back again. “Better?”

He gets a grunt in response, which is fairly standard in this situation. But when Geralt finally lifts his head to look at him, he’s frowning, dark thoughts still clouding his eyes.

“I almost lost you today,” Geralt says through clenched teeth.

Ah. Well. Yes. That would explain the nightmare. It’s flattering, in an intensely morbid sort of way, but also massively guilt-riddling. Jaskier isn’t a fan of the feelings currently churning about in his chest. Or the fact that they’re all his own fault.

“I shouldn’t have let you get this close to them,” Geralt growls, sour and angry, and oh, no, no, sir.

“No-no- _no_ , my dear,” says Jaskier decisively. “No tragic self-blaming for you, I shan’t have that. Bad wolf. _I_ was the one who insisted.”

“ _You’re_ an idiot,” grunts Geralt. “ _I_ should have known better.”

“Eh – I’ll grant you the former, but not the latter. I was the one who went over your head and got into that boat with you. So – I'm sorry, Geralt. I’m so, so sorry. But it’s all right now. You continue to be stuck with me for at least a couple centuries,” he says, tries to make light of it, guide them towards something brighter and away from the mire of Geralt’s self-blaming.

But Geralt is still frowning, and Jaskier knows he’s still at least ankle-deep in this mess.

“Jaskier. You’ll only live for centuries if you don’t get yourself killed first.”

And well, when he puts it _that way_...

For a man of few words, Geralt has the uncanny ability to make them count and deliver quite a verbal punch. Jaskier bites his lip, fiddles with a strand of Geralt’s hair; he’s never been very good at being out-manoeuvred. In his defence, it doesn’t happen very often. Trust Geralt to take all the fun out of being as close to immortality as it gets, honestly.

“Ah. Well. Hmm,” he finally says.

“Hmm,” says Geralt, the bastard, but Jaskier _is_ responsible for the nightmare he just had, so he’ll take it.

It still has a bit of a thrill of novelty to it, is all. The discovery that there’s a trickle of elven blood thrumming along in Jaskier’s veins; a trickle that carries no magic or strength with it, but which is just enough to give him a lifetime to match Geralt’s. A proper lifetime for both of them – one they can spend together.

Which is why it’s so annoying that Geralt is right. Well. Technically.

“I know,” he murmurs, twisting a lock of silver hair around his ring finger until it looks like a band. “But I can’t stay behind every time. I have to see it.”

“Jaskier...”

“No, I know. You have your monsters, and what you do is so noble, Geralt, even if you don’t think it is, and it is also invaluable. But what I do is important too, my darling. The tales I tell. The truths I want to show.”

Geralt doesn’t snort, but Jaskier can see it’s a near thing.

“Jaskier, you lie more than anybody I’ve ever met.”

“I do. But not about what matters. The pretty lies in my songs, my dear – they're there to garnish the actual truth people refuse to swallow. The truth about how breathtakingly good you really are. And I have to keep doing it. You have your monsters to slay – I have mine.”

Geralt stays silent, a small frown pinching his brow as he thinks on Jaskier’s words. Jaskier twists his finger; the band of silver hair around it catches a scant bit of moonlight. Idly, Jaskier wonders if he could snip just a lock of Geralt’s hair without waking him some night.

“It’s not safe,” Geralt tries again, an old favourite he warms over when he’s out of ammunition, and Jaskier gives him an unimpressed look.

“My dear, where there’s absolute safety there’s no freedom at all. And I know you’d never ask that of me.”

“No,” says Geralt, rough and guttural and full of resentment, an admission dragged out of him against his will – but the truth nonetheless, and he strokes his knuckles over Jaskier's cheek. “I wouldn’t.”

“Well, then! Glad we had this talk, Geralt, I feel it was stupendously productive. Now, if you—"

“No,” says Geralt again, this time in a flat tone, and he somehow _increases_ his weight, pinning Jaskier down securely to the mattress without moving a muscle. Jaskier wonders if it’s a Witcher thing. “Not done.”

“You want to keep talking? Oh, this is too rich for words. Ironically enough.” Jaskier grins, squirming a little.

“You can’t always get this close,” says Geralt, and it sounds like a negotiating position, but Jaskier still groans.

The thing is, they’ve had this argument so many times before. So, so many. And, Jaskier thinks with a bright flicker in his chest, they will have it so many more times still – they have decades heaped upon centuries to argue about this. But Geralt has made a concession – he no longer tries to drop Jaskier off at the nearest outpost of civilisation whenever he so much as gets a scratch. He didn’t suggest it even now, still scraped raw with the nightmare and keeping Jaskier unrelentingly in his arms.

Perhaps it’s time for Jaskier to take a step of his own, so that one day, years from now, they can meet halfway.

“Oh, _gods_ , Geralt, you drive a hard bargain. Fine: not always. But sometimes! Depending on the monster, maybe? Oh! I shall compile a bestiary with a bard-harmfulness index! An academic work the likes of which has never been attempted before!”

Geralt snorts, something clearing in those lovely, golden eyes.

“The sirens go on top of the list.”

“I _said_ I was sorry!”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, pushing his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck again, his body going loose as the tension of their argument falls away, silently agreed-upon to be left behind for now. Against his skin, Jaskier can feel his lips twitching into a smile. “Bad buttercup.”

Jaskier laughs, tangling his fingers in Geralt’s hair.

Later, when he plays the soothing melody again, he manages to send Geralt back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was supposed to be max 800 words - and yet, here we are. I hope you enjoyed! I continue to be captivated by these precious idiots.


End file.
